


Each Dog Has Its Day

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people will die for their flag. Others just die in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Dog Has Its Day

I'll never understand the British.

Forty years ago, this would have been considered an offence against their country. If we'd been in London and not Berlin, then we'd probably have been arrested for disgracing their flag. Very symbolic, this photo-shoot we're doing. It's a British magazine, so the Union flag is in evidence, although somewhat at half-mast wrapped tight about Richard's waist. Originally the photographer wanted Flake on hands and knees in an absolutely hideous blue vest and grey underpants, with me holding him on a head-halter and leash. The effect was less 'Hey, Bulldog' and more like a stunted greyhound. Not a pretty sight.

So bring on the dancing boys… Richard loves playing dress-up and making a twat of himself, and he's a hell of a lot prettier than dear Flake. I swear the stylist spent fifteen minutes smearing charcoal over Richard's torso, dancing it down his arms and dabbing it over his shoulders and rubbing it across his chest to blend it with that narrow dark stripe of hair.

Can't blame her, really. He looks – wanton. The Union Jack rides low over his hips, and the silly pair of sandals gives him a demure look that's totally inappropriate. The flag wraps around him one-and-a-half times, the trailing edge snaking up his right thigh. I watch him straighten it carefully, aligning the horizontal band of St George's cross so that it lies just so; then he sinks down onto his knees.

Paul, resplendent in shiny tight PVC, picks up the braided bullwhip that Richard was fooling about with earlier, and, to the amusement and bemusement of all, he tickles the looped coils across Richard's shoulder.

He shudders, once. Just briefly. It's enough.

Schneider giggles. He's allowed to, he's wearing a skirt. Flake makes some weird gurgly sound and Olli just sighs in a way that suggests he's all out of patience.

And me? Hell, I just tilt my chin towards my chest until my fringe tumbles forwards. When in doubt, look down and look pissed off. It never fails. It's always worked in the past, but – but usually I don't have Richard crouched at my feet wearing the British flag and charcoal dust and precious little else.

Paul's really enjoying this. He slides the whip against Richard's ribs and then leans forward in the chair to pet the scarlet-and-gold tipped spikes.

"Good doggy," he croons. "Does doggy want a bone?"

Schneider nearly trips over the hem of his skirt as he attempts to turn a burst of laughter into a coughing fit.

Doggy does indeed want a bone – or something. Doggy puts his hand coquettishly on Paul's knee and bats his eyelashes.

Flake and Olli are tittering away now. Fuck. This is rapidly descending into farce. Was it ever serious to begin with? All I know is that it's irritating me to watch Richard and Paul flirt so obviously.

Schneider, still giggling, hands Paul the gag on the other leash. Doggy would wag his tail if he could. Bloody hell! I snatch the thing off Paul and glare down at Richard, who simply shuffles himself about and sits back on his haunches, hands up as if begging.

"You're a crap dog," I snap. "You look like a squirrel."

He gives me a slightly modified version of the coquette's stare: a little alarming when his left eye is blanked white with a contact lens. His right eye is alight with some wicked intent though, and he paws at me the way he did to Paul.

"Arsehole," I grumble in a mildly affectionate tone, and I offer him the gag. He won't take it; drops both hands to his knees and looks at me expectantly.

The others are getting impatient now. Flake shifts from one foot to the other, and even Schneider has stopped giggling and flitting about in his stupid skirt. I stare at Richard, the gag held out between us. He simply stares back, his gaze unwavering.

Stupid bastard.

Harder than I have to, and certainly harder than I intend to, I snap the bit between his teeth and grab both ends of the leash up in one hand, curling the leather over my fist. The rubber gag pulls tight, splits Richard's mouth as I haul back on the reins. For a second I see the flash of his teeth as he sinks them into the gag, his lips peeling back in a savage little snarl that is quite the horniest thing I've seen in ages. He shakes his head, literally champing at the bit, leaving a slick of saliva and the deep indentation of his canines in the black rubber as he allows it to settle.

I tighten my grip again and jerk his head back, fascinated by the bite of the silver rings in the hollows of his cheekbones. By angling the leash and tugging at one of the reins more than the other, I can make him lift his head until the whole perfect column of his throat is curved, exposed, and vulnerable. His eyes are closed, and this reinforces the image.

Ha. He's fabulous.

The photographer calls us to order, telling Richard to sidle alongside me. He does this with alacrity; then he poses obediently, stretching his spine so that his body undulates downwards in one sweeping motion. I tear my gaze away from the expanse of pale naked flesh presented to me, and I give Paul a fierce look.

He's stroking the whip like he thinks it was about to get away from him. Maybe it already has. He always was the jealous type.

Richard brings his head forwards again despite the fact that I'm still holding the leash tight. It must be hurting him, but he makes not a sound. Kinky bastard, he's done this before… And suddenly I want him to make a noise: even a squeak of acknowledgement will do.

I slouch onto one hip and shove my hand in my pocket, then swing one foot up onto Richard's back. Hard. Then I grind my heel into his coccyx. Harder.

He trembles very slightly, and his fingers curl and splay against the floor.

Good.

Paul coils the whip and stares at the camera, pointedly ignoring doggy's pitiful little gaze as he tosses his head again.

"Bad doggy," I breathe, so soft that it's barely audible; and in response, Richard flexes his spine again – less like a dog and more like a cat, all sinuous, subtle grace.

Subtle? Hmm, yes, he is - despite the blatancy of the bondage.

I like subtle. I like blatant. Damn him.

The photographer likes our pose. Paul sneers, still fiddling with the whip; and suggests that I ride Richard. We ditch the chair and the dog becomes a horse, wriggling his knees apart and letting his elbows lock straight. Yeah, I'm heavy - even taking most of my weight through my thighs I'll be too much for him.

Fuck it. Why should I spare him?

I sit on him, feel the leather slip over the thicker material of the Union Jack as I settle onto the small of his back. He makes a tiny huff as the breath is driven out of his body, and I feel the tremor of muscles beneath me as he adjusts to my weight. His neck bows, so I tug at the reins and he hisses around the gag as his head snaps back sharp enough for us to hear the tiny pop of bones in his neck.

Behind me, Paul growls in disapproval.

"Your idea, remember?" Olli comments.

Wish I could see Paul's miserable expression. Instead, I give the camera a haughty look… or maybe it's one of abject boredom. I forget how close the two expressions are. Not that I'm bored; that's impossible when I'm sitting on Richard.

He's got used to me, but I can see the infinitesimal shaking of his arms as the photographer adjusts the shutter speed and then calls for us to vary our poses. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Richard moves: his carefully-balanced weight shifting from his hips through to his arms. His spine curves down again, and the planes of muscles slide and glide upwards to tense across the back of his shoulders. His entire body carries forwards, and of course, I go with him, losing my own balance slightly and grabbing at the leash as the only thing that keeps him in check – and keeps me from tumbling off him and onto my face. Richard fights the leash as I try to rein him in, his hands inching further and further apart on the floor and his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding us both upright.

It's not going to work. The balance has been tipped too far forwards and I am no Foucault to bring it back again. I frown, try to slide back onto the tail of his spine, but in another second we'll both be sprawled on the floor –

Executive decision. I drop the reins and let him go, swing myself off of him. Richard makes a show of collapsing in relief, putting his head down and stretching his back and arms like a cat clawing at a post, his fingers flexing and digging into the white-painted floorboards. The Union Jack still points skywards, an invitation that Paul can't resist even as Richard slowly wiggles his arse in provocation.

I exchange a grimace with Schneider and decide to quit while I'm ahead. The others can play amongst themselves. I need a smoke and the chance to unwind a little. The long muscles in my thighs hurt, and there is a curious ache coiled deep in the pit of my stomach. I could put a name to it; but I won't.

Not right now, anyway.

I go into the dressing-room and hunt out a pack of cigarettes, shuffle one out and put it to my lips. As I look around for my lighter, the door clicks open and then shuts again.

I freeze; look up at my reflection in the mirror. Well, well. I'm amazed that I'm not more surprised by this. Slowly, I take the cigarette from my mouth and drop it onto the dresser; then I turn around and stare at Richard.

He leans against the door, both hands behind him to nestle in the small of his back. His head is tilted to one side, the gold tints in the spikes of his hair gleaming dully under the harsh light of the room.

No words.

No words are necessary. They never are, not with us. I'm ridiculously flattered that it's me and not Paul that he came to, but…

Hmm, to taste him – that would be –

I cross the room and look down at him. He's taken off the stupid sandals and stands barefoot, still wearing the Union Jack low around his hips. He doesn't move, his head back against the wooden panels of the door. Only his eyes flicker as I lean into his space; it's uncanny how rapidly the human eye moves, but I only notice it when he wears those white contacts.

His lips are parted; his breath whispers in, out, and I can still see the marks of the gag, see how it's split the corners of his mouth very finely.

It must sting.

His breathing becomes more rapid as I get closer. I put one hand on the door beside his head; inhale him for a moment; then kiss him.

He never made a sound out there. He makes a sound now, a tiny moan of compliance and desire and I do not know what else; and his hands push at the door, push his body away from its surface and into my arms.

His lips are soft and cool, his mouth cold with the aftertaste of cigarette smoke. His tongue rises, curls, strokes against mine. I draw out of the kiss before he can deepen it, and I lick at the corners of his mouth. A tiny shudder of reaction stirs him, and I feel a flash of guilt for having hurt him.

He murmurs again, the line of his shoulders relaxing. I move, tilt my head until my fringe falls forward to tangle in the silly spikes of his hair. Red and gold and red. And we just stand there for a moment, neither of us knowing what the other is thinking, until I raise my left hand and touch his throat. Just a brief caress, the pad of my thumb stroking from the underside of his chin down to where the black cord of his necklace rings him, breaks up the paleness of his flesh.

Richard lifts his chin, his movement causing the disc on his necklace to glitter from his skin, and I linger over it for a second or two before resting my hand against his chest. He's looking at me, waiting for me; his eyes are drowsy, his expression composed and expectant.

I take a step back from him and watch the shock of panic splinter his calm. I don't go far - just far enough to be able to see him better. But he forgets himself, one hand reaching out to curve possessive and tight about my waist. I give him a lowering look and he breathes again, but doesn't let go. I like that.

I smudge the artistic streaks of charcoal into his skin, watching it smear and darken as I run my fingers down his body. The lights were hot out there; his skin is damp. He squirms a little as I trace my forefinger across the sweep of his chest. The stylist taped down his nipples - ridiculous British! – and now… And now my fingers toy with the edge of the tape, until he catches his breath and tenses for me, knowing it'll hurt in a sharp, tearing moment –

I rip the tape from him and he jumps, another tiny squeak escaping him. He closes his eyes as I reach for the second piece of tape, but this time I peel it off him slowly, feeling his heat rise and his body tremble in response.

"Please?" he finally manages to whisper.

Richard is always so polite. I admire that in a man. Especially in these situations. Well: ask and thou shalt receive… I slide my hand lower, over his ribs and along his waist and then inwards, across his stomach to touch the top edge of the flag.

He breathes in. The flag drops lower.

I like blatant, yes I do; and so my hand brushes over the stripe of the cross of St George to grasp Richard's cock beneath the thick cotton of the flag. He sighs, twists himself from the door a little and clasps me tighter, his eyes opening wide as I touch him. Another moan, and his head goes back hard against the door. His lips curl back from his teeth and he hisses in desperation. He looks better without the gag.

His hips move, jerking against my thighs and forcing me to catch his rhythm. This time I can't rein him in; can't slow him; he controls the tempo although it's my hand on his cock. His eyes half-lid, his shoulders tensing again: as if he's fighting his arousal and his pleasure rather than seeking it. His eyebrows draw together in a frown of concentration. Wanton, wilful, wicked: he's beautiful, his face catlike in its depravity, and he slinks closer, heedless of my own need as he chases oblivion.

If he were anyone else, I'd whisper to him; but he needs no encouragement, no words to spur him on. He forces himself away from the door and buries his face against my neck, so I turn my head and lick at the damp strands of red and gold at his nape. His breath is hot on my skin, ruffles my hair, and then I feel the edge of his teeth, hesitant and coy.

He's unbelievably hard beneath my hand, the stitching on the component parts of the flag scratching and working at his sensitive flesh as I stroke him. His hips slam up against me harder, his entire body shaking until I have to push him back against the door to stop him from getting away from me. His arm loops up around my neck and squeezes us in tight, our heads together. I can't see his face; I wish I could. Instead, I stare blindly at the door-panelling and feel the roughness of his spiked hair, hear the gasps of his breath grow sharper and sharper.

Then he tenses, coils himself inward, and I feel his lips part in choked, guttural ecstasy, a sound he tries to hide in my coat, against my neck.

And beneath my hand, Richard has disgraced the Union Jack.

Some people will die for their flag. Others just die in it.

There's another moment of complete stillness, then he moves his head from my shoulder, rubs his cheek against mine and almost purrs his gratitude. "Thank you."

And with that, with a single glittering flash of the coquette in his eyes, Richard extricates himself from my embrace and slips through the door away from me.

I think – in the nicest way possible, of course – I think I've been had.

And I think I'm amused by it.

After all, these are new tricks. And I am an old dog.


End file.
